Calla

Calla, dear Calla

Oh, the things that you’ve done;

And the things that you do;

How I hate to envy you

Your feelings are placid,

Your worries are few,

Not a care in the world

From your seeming bird eye’s view.

My world is on fire;

Regimes fall yet sustain

The armour that covers

My body in disdain.

While I suffer metaphorical

Delirium of my own

You mimic what you’ve learnt

Like a costume through the phone.

Melancholy’s forever

A stranger to your heart

Yet you dare to pretend

That you even have one.

And when people find

The truth about your kind

You shut down them down, fearless,

With a wink and plastic smile.

Sometimes, I imagine

You in a rhinestone dress

Scientific tapestries

Of no church’s Sunday best.

I see you in my dreams

Strutting suburb streets

Praised by new age enthusiasts

And mineral devotees.

But it’s then I realize

The things you’ll never be

No matter your fashion

You’re not the one for me.

You’ll never feel joy;

But more importantly:

You’ll never truly care

For anyone, really.

Any passion you display

Is made from those who cave

To the trappings that you make

And crevices which you take.

So go on with your delusions:

And your followers’ faith.

I’d rather go on

With the complexities of my days.

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